Take Me to Therapy
by cornpony
Summary: Forced to carry out his life sentence in Hero's Duty, Turbo is required to attend mandatory therapy meetings. Does he learn anything about the consequences of his actions, some handy self-improvement tips, or how to control his pent-up anger? (The answer is no.)
1. welcome to heck

There was no point in cuffing him. Turbo's only form of restraint, if you could even call it that, was a thin metal tracking device, snuggled close to his skin, hidden beneath the red canvas of his left Chuck Taylor. Sergeant Calhoun claimed it prevented him from escaping _Hero's Duty_, set to detonate the moment he set foot outside the boundaries of the game. Turbo had yet to test that theory, choosing instead to keep both his legs intact. And as far as the safety of the in-game residents were concerned, that one was a no-brainer; everyone there was armed to the teeth and could take care of themselves just fine. Even the elderly janitor wore a layer of armor and kept a laser pistol holstered at his hip.

So if he tried to escape, Turbo would be vaporized, and if he tried to harm anyone, they'd simply blow his head off, and that would be that.

He was in quite a pickle.

"Oh, wipe that sour look off your face," said the soldier walking at his right side, grinning at him brightly. Her hot pink lipstick was in eye-wateringly sharp contrast to the gunmetal gray of her armor. "It'll be fun."

"No, it' won't," huffed the soldier to his left. Her face was bare, unless you counted the angry rash streaking across her cheek and spotting down her neck. (Still, Turbo thought she was kind of cute anyway, but he wasn't hard to please when it came to outward appearance—anyone programmed to be at or above eighteen years of age and who had a beating heart was automatically a five in his book.) "It'll be the most uncomfortable hour and a half of your life. Until you're forced to do it again the next week."

The woman to his right, the one with the lipstick, laid a pudgy hand atop Turbo's helmet. Her long nails clicked against the white fiberglass. "It's really not that bad," she assured him in a cheerful tone. "There's snacks, too."

"There _are _good snacks," the woman on the left agreed.

The three walked along the corridor in thoughtful silence until they reached an open doorway, stepping into a large, fairly crowded room. It was pretty much how Turbo had imagined it; a cluster of sullen-faced soldiers sitting in a circle of chairs in the center of the room. The stereotypical group therapy setting, it looked like. The two female soldiers led him to the snack table, which did not disappoint, and ushered him into the circle. Turbo sat himself in the middle, so he at least wouldn't have to sit next to someone he wasn't familiar with.

Leading the group was a rather puny-looking man, a simple bow and quiver of arrows slung across his back. As he began to speak, the chatter in the room died away.

"Glad we could all make it today," he said. He looked directly at Turbo and smiled. Turbo wanted to puke. He shoved a frosted sugar cookie into his mouth to avoid making an inappropriate face, or something. He was on thin ice as it was. He needed be on his best behavior, at least for the moment.

"I'm sure you've all heard by now, but we have a new member here today. I want everybody to say hello to Turbo."

All eyes swiveled to the stout, gray-skinned figure in the room, the only one not in standard-issue or modified Hero's Duty armor, the one trying to hide his face behind a red plastic cup of kool aid. They all muttered their halfhearted hellos to him. The woman to his right, the one that liked to invade his personal space, wrapped an arm around him and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. He caught a whiff of her sweet-smelling deodorant.

He wanted to crawl in a hole and die. And stay dead this time.

"It gets worse," the woman to his left whispered, smiling wickedly.

"Gee, thanks," Turbo muttered in reply, frowning.

The teacher—leader, instructor, whatever the hell he was called—clapped his hands once, which brought everyone's attention back to him. "Turbo, we're just so glad to have you join our little support group, here. I'm sure you'll fit right in. My name is Gabriel. Now, so Turbo can get to know everyone, we're going to go around the room and introduce ourselves. Tell us your name and something fun about yourself. And how about we start with the two lovely ladies who brought you here?" He pointed to the woman seated at Turbo's left. "Stand up and introduce yourself, please."

She sighed, an almost inaudible noise, rising to her feet slowly. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a middle finger.

"Uh," she said, looking around the room at all the eyes boring down on her. Her cheeks flushed, her rash darkened. "My name is Juniper Adams, um, something fun about me is…" Apparently, nothing came to her. She gave a slight shrug with her right shoulder. "Well, I'm the mechanic here, I work on all the…vehicular…things that need worked on." A couple people murmured in response to that, but Turbo couldn't tell if it was good murmuring or bad. Juniper released a puff of pent-up air and fell back down into her seat.

"Very good, Juniper," Gabriel chirped. He beckoned a hand to the woman at Turbo's right. "Now you."

The other woman stood, a winning grin on her face, clasping her hands in front of herself. "I'm Katie Figueroa," she lilted, batting her (fake?) eyelashes, "and something fun about _me_ is that, as of yesterday, I have over five hundred confirmed Cybug kills."

There was some definite scoffing at that by a few people who, apparently, didn't think that was a number to be bragging about, but there were a few impressed murmurs, too. Turbo thought it sounded pretty good, anyway.

"That is certainly something to be proud of," Gabriel said. He pointed to the man sitting beside Katie. "Next, please."

And they went around the circle like that, giving forced, awkward introductions, the vast majority grasping at straws to say something "fun" about themselves. Other than the two he came with, there were five other women in the room, which surprised Turbo. He thought he'd found the only two females in the game, sans Calhoun herself. But from what small portion of the game he'd seen thus far, it seemed like there were equal parts men and women.

Come to think of it, Turbo wasn't really used to that.

Finally, there was no one left in the room but Turbo. Gabriel looked at him expectantly.

Turbo slid another cookie into his mouth.

"And we always let our newest member of the group introduce themselves last," Gabriel said, giving Turbo a suggestive look.

Turbo looked down at his paper plate for something else distracting to eat. Empty. His plastic cup was empty, too, but he took a pretend sip from it, anyway.

After he pretend-swallowed, he said, evenly, "I'd rather not."

There was a soft rumbling of laughter throughout the circle. But perhaps Gabriel had been expecting that response. "Oh, come on, now," he said. "Don't be a Negative Nancy."

Katie leaned over and whispered into the ear-hole of his helmet. "It'll be fine," she said. "Just get it over with, we've all had to do it."

"He won't leave you alone until you do," Juniper said, her tone making Turbo think she was speaking from experience.

"Fine," Turbo said. "But I'm not standing up."

Gabriel looked relieved. "Definitely okay, that's definitely understandable," Gabriel said. "Go on ahead."

But when all eyes turned to Turbo yet again, he realized he was the center of attention, and not necessarily in a negative way. He couldn't help himself. He slid out of the chair, stashing his trash between its legs.

"As you've probably already gathered," Turbo began, his voice coming out more King Candy-ish than he would've liked, but it was too late to change it, at that point. "I'm Turbo."

"Turbo is our guest from another game," Gabriel explained to the circle.

"I thought he was the new prisoner," interjected a broad-shouldered soldier.

"Well," Gabriel said, flustered, "he—"

"I am," Turbo cut in. "And a _fun fact _about _me _is that—"

But he stopped. He was all fired up to say something snarky, some kind of quick-witted retort, but he was drawing a blank.

What _was_ something fun about himself?

"Guess Speedy lost his thunder," said a woman with half of her head shaved. This granted a fair amount of chortling from the group.

"Carrie Lynn," Gabriel scolded. "This is the No-Negativity Circle. You know the rules. We do not poke fun at our colleagues."

Carrie Lynn rolled her eyes, but Gabriel pretended he hadn't seen her.

"Anyhow, Turbo," Gabriel said, putting his smile back on his face. "It's perfectly alright if you can't think of something fun about yourself right offhand. Sometimes it's hard to do, when you're put on the spot. Why don't you tell us a little about what you like to do? Judging by your outfit, there, I'm betting you like to race cars?"

As if it magically would've changed, somehow, Turbo looked down at his clothes to confirm what they looked like. White racing suit with the thick red stripe down the arms, down the legs, down the middle. Red trim. Red high-tops with gleaming white laces. White helmet with a red T painted on the front..

He felt sick to his stomach. He sat back down in his chair.

"I used to," he said, all traces of bravado gone from his voice now. "But I don't figure I'll be racing any time soon. Or…ever again."

"Certainly sorry to hear that," Gabriel said, sounding genuinely sympathetic, which was kind of worse than pretending to be so. "But that _does_ bring us to the central theme of our meeting for today, which is…" He paused for dramatic effect. "Working through the consequences of our actions—finding peace within ourselves. Just because we've made mistakes in our lives doesn't mean—"

And so Gabriel went on with his lecture, calling on volunteers to speak their opinion from time to time. It was fairly surprising how many of these soldiers opened up about their inner turmoils, and Turbo almost, _almost_, found it interesting.

Though he didn't want to admit it, some of what Gabriel had said _did _make him think: after everything that happened over the course of his life, could he actually be happy again?

Did he even deserve…?

He hated thinking about it, if he was being honest.

Apparently, Turbo had drifted off somewhere, elsewhere, because when his mind was jarred back into the present, everyone was dragging themselves to their feet, getting ready to leave.

"You made it," Juniper said to him, and what looked like a genuine smile crossed her face. Turbo hopped out of his seat, not sure where Juniper at Katie were going to drag him next, but he very much wanted to leave the "therapy" room. It was currently having the opposite effect on him.

He looked across the room, where the counselor-guy was chatting animatedly with one of the ladies, who was obviously very uninterested in whatever it was that he was saying.

"Can't say I'm very fond of that Gabriel," Turbo said, falling in line behind Katie, Juniper following close behind him.

"Oh, we all hate him," Katie said, rolling her eyes.

"He's a dickweed," Juniper said.

"Majorly," Katie agreed.

But on the plus side, Turbo believed he was going to like his new wardens. He put his hands on his hips, leaned backward until his spine went _popopop. _

"Where to now?" Turbo asked.

"To your community service," Juniper said, a smug air in her tone.

"Community—? Was that not punishment enough?" Turbo gestured wildly toward the door they'd just walked out of.

"Not quite," Juniper said. "Calhoun wants her rover washed and waxed."

Turbo groaned, his posture drooping. "I hate cleaning."

"Just a fair warning, you're gonna be doing a lot of it," Katie said, falling into step beside Turbo. "So you better get used to it."

_Well, _Turbo thought to himself, _at least it's better than boiling alive inside an active volcano._

_I think._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hey! I haven't written anything in a long time. Work is really stressful, and when I get home, I'm just fried. So I'm pretty rusty, but I'm going to work on it.

I really hope the Wreck-it Ralph fandom gets a breath of life soon :(

And you might have noticed, if you read my other (unfinished) story _Children of the Candy Corn_, there are two recurring characters in this story. The first is Katie, who now has a last name. And there's also Juniper, who was previously named Callie. I didn't like the name "Callie" for her, it sounded like a pet name for Calhoun, and it just didn't fit. So I've changed it.

Also, I don't really know where I was going with this, it was more of a little drabble than anything, but I've always liked the idea of Turbo being sent to _Hero's Duty _to serve his life sentence. Even so, he still manages to have some semblance of a life there, though he doesn't go unpunished for his deeds.

I dunno, I may make a continuation of this later if I can think of something to go along with it. (:


	2. turbo gets naked

Turbo's so-called "community service" wasn't actually all that bad, but there was no way he'd let his new wardens know that. The two women, Juniper and Katie, kept a watchful eye on him as they lounged in threadbare office chairs, their feet propped on top of overturned egg crates.

The garage where all the rovers were parked was cold, but Juniper had dragged out two space heaters from her office, and that helped. She'd hooked them up to an extension cord and turned them on high, pointing one of them in Turbo's direction. So the temperature was bearable—even if he _was _soaking wet. The only thing dry about him was his helmet, and that was because he'd taken it off and sat it aside before he started.

"You missed a spot," Juniper said without so much as looking up. She had a ball of purple yarn in her lap, her hands bobbing as she crocheted. She had the beginnings of a hat coming into form, it looked like.

Crocheting? Really? These _Hero's Duty _people were just full of surprises.

"You're so funny," Turbo said, raking a damp clump of black hair out of his eyes. "Not."

He didn't quite smile, but he thought about it, which was an improvement. In fact, he thought he was doing a fine job scrubbing this thing. What those two didn't know was that he used to hand wash his kart every night—both in his original cabinet and in his adoptive one, _Sugar Rush_.

He loved making metal shine.

And this beautiful hunk of machinery was posing a unique situation. Along with the normal mud and gunk that was to be expected to accumulate with off-road travel, the front grill was caked with Cybug remnants. Sticky greenish goo, mixed with bits and bobs of metallic stuff, invaded every nook and cranny. Turbo's bucket of suds was filled with some oily-smelling stuff that was supposed to be some special type of Cybug-be-gone, but it wasn't doing that great of a job.

Turbo decided it was about time for a break. He dropped the sponge he was holding into the soap bucket, dried his pruned hands on a shop towel, and took a seat directly in front of the girls' heater.

"What I wanna know," Turbo said, before Juniper or Katie could say anything about him abandoning his post, "is why _you two _have to go to that stupid class."

"Gabriel's therapy class?" Katie asked, shutting her magazine to look at him. Juniper kept on crocheting her hat-thing, but it was clear by the look on her face that she was listening.

"Yeah, that. Why do you have to go? You seem pretty sane to me. Unlike"—Turbo gave Katie a pointed look—"some of the others in there."

Juniper sighed quietly, sitting her crochet needles in her lap. "Everybody's got their own reasons. It's not like any of us…_want _to go."

"Who makes you go, then?" Turbo asked.

"Who's making _you_ go?" Juniper countered.

Turbo nodded. The sergeant lady. "Good point."

"Anyway," Katie said, trying her best to ease the growing tension, "you'll find out soon enough, I'm sure. Gabriel doesn't let you keep secrets. Just like we'll eventually find out what _you _did, Turbo."

Turbo didn't really know what to say to that. There were a few things he'd done in his past that he wasn't too terribly proud of. And he couldn't imagine spouting it out to a classroom full of people he didn't even know.

"And what're you doing over here, slacking on the job, anyway?" Katie reprimanded. "You've still got a long way to go." She flapped a hand at him. "Shoo, shoo. Back to work."

Turbo narrowed his eyes at her, but he got up all the same, trudging back to his work. He fished the sponge out of the bucket and tried to scrape more Cybug innards out of the sergeant's grille, lest he open up a whole new can of worms with these ladies. But he knew it wouldn't be long before he mentioned something he'd rather not. Now that he had no secrets to keep, he was actually kind of itching to divulge a few. Some of them, not so much, but…he did have a couple bragging rights.

Not very many, but some.

_This damn thing's never gonna get clean_, he thought to himself, sighing.

He hadn't wanted to go, but he was absolutely drenched, and he didn't much have a choice. After all those years in _Sugar Rush, _he was back in his standard racing suit…and already he was peeling it off to wear something else. Another costume. He sighed.

"It's only till you get dry," he whispered to the pile of waterlogged clothing. He was standing naked in a dressing room, arms crossed, waiting on a set of dry clothes to be handed to him. He felt like an idiot.

Suddenly, a fluffy yellow towel was thrown over the dressing room door, smacking him in the face. He yowled in surprise, throwing the thing to the floor before he realized what it was.

"Dry off with that," Juniper hollered to him.

So he did, tossing it to the floor when he was through with it. If he was being honest…much better.

"How much longer?" he called to no one in particular.

"It'll be done when it gets done," replied a gruff male voice he didn't recognize. "Can't rush this kinda thing."

Every now and then he'd hear a sewing machine tik-tik-tikking away, then it would stop, then it would start up again. Turbo wasn't a good judge of time, but he'd wager to guess it was thirty minutes before he heard the unfamiliar voice again.

"Done," the voice boomed proudly. ("Bout time," Turbo muttered under his breath.) "Here, Adams, slide these under for him."

Two seconds later, a pair of hands proffered him a neatly folded stack of fabric, which he graciously accepted.

On top of the stack was a set of rather form-fitting underclothes—boxers, sleeveless tank shirt, even the knee-length socks were pretty snug—that felt like they were made of some kind of moisture-wicking material. Next came a looser-fitted shirt, also made with the smooth-feeling fabric. Some pretty basic-looking utility pants, but—surprise, surprise—they felt like they were coated in some kind of waterproofing agent. Finally, a utility jacket that he didn't bother to button, also (possibly) waterproof.

The pants and jacket were a gray color not unlike the shade of his skin; everything else was black. He put his soggy red Chucks back on his feet, but his snazzy new socks kept him from feeling any of the wetness.

For the first time since entering this weird game, he was actually warm.

"How's it going in there?" Katie called.

No sooner had Turbo unlocked the door to step out did Katie yank the door open and beam at him.

"Look at you!" she said, "Those fit you perfectly!" Juniper nodded in agreement.

"Sure is a lot better than being wet," Turbo said, which was more or less his way of saying thanks.

The maker of the clothes walked up to him, eyeing him up and down. "Those are a damn good fit, even if I did make em myself," he said, then chuckled at his own joke.

"Hey, you've probably seen Markowski in Gabriel's class," Katie said, gesturing toward the bulky mass of man wielding a bolt of fabric and cloth tape measure. Come to think of it, he did look pretty familiar, but Turbo didn't remember anything about him.

"Yeah," Markowski grunted. "Hated that damn class at first. Then Gabriel got me switched in here…he's annoying as hell, but he's a good guy."

"So far, he's just annoying to me," Juniper remarked, grinning.

"Ah, he'll grow on you," Markowski guffawed, giving Juniper a good-natured clap on the back. Juniper stumbled, nearly falling forward, but Markowski caught her before she could face-plant into the concrete.

"Sorry," Markowski said sincerely. "I don't do a lot of hard labor round here, so I kinda forget my strength. And _you_"—he said, pointing a thick finger at Turbo—"better appreciate that. That outfit was a real challenge. Never had to make something that small before."

"_Small_!" Turbo bawled, fuming.

But Markowski ignored the outburst. "Since you don't exactly have to wear armor, I took a few liberties with your outfit. All waterproof, though, since you'll mostly be working in the garage with Juniper and in the kitchen with Katie."

Turbo gave Katie a sharp look. "You didn't say anything about working in a kitchen." Washing cars, he could stand. Washing dishes, not so much.

"It'll be fun," Katie assured him, which seemed to be her go-to phrase. Turbo just tightened his lips at her. He didn't even know what to say to that.

"Anyhow, I'll make you a few more outfits so you don't have to wear the same thing over and over," Markowski said. "I'll drop em off at your holding cell when they're done. Hell, I'll even dry your old ones, how's that?"

After a beat of silence: "Since Turbo won't say thanks," Katie said, "I will. So thank you."

"No problem," Markowski said, giving Katie a very exaggerated wink. Katie laughed at that, but she did not look offended at the gesture. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Once the three of them departed Markowski's sewing room, Juniper busted out in a laugh.

"What was _that_, Katie?"

"What was what?" she said defensively.

"'Since Turbo won't say thanks,'" Turbo mocked in a high-pitched voice, "'_I _will. Thank you so, so, much, you big, strong, handsome man—'"

"What!" Katie said. "He's cute!"

"He is _not_!" Juniper said.

"He's right behind us," Turbo said offhandedly.

Both girls stopped dead in their tracks, looks of horror washing over their faces. They spun around. The hall was empty.

"Oh, you little shit," Juniper said, slapping him on the back of the head, which actually hurt. "Just for that, you're washing _my _rover, too."

The three of them walked back to the garage, but they were sure not to talk about anyone else who might happen to be walking behind them.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I decided to continue this! It started off as a oneshot, but I got a few ideas and decided to make a second chapter. It was a little more campy than I planned, but I actually like that about it. I don't want this to be a serious story. I won't lie to you, though, I have literally no ideas for a chapter three, but I promise if I think of anything I'll do my best to write it out.


	3. important questions

The usual crowd had taken their seats in the circle of fold-up chairs, cups of soda in their hands and paper plates piled with snacks in their laps. This was only Turbo's second visit to the therapy room, but he already wanted to leave. He'd rather be washing dishes or waxing vehicles or folding towels or whatever the hell else his wardens could think for him to do. Juniper and Katie—the two women Sergeant Calhoun put in charge of him—were pretty merciful, but they still made him work hard.

Hard work seemed to be a much better alternative than sitting in the therapy circle at that moment. The counselor—the Gabriel guy—was in fine form. He was even more horrendously upbeat than when Turbo had first encountered him, if that was possible. He looked very pleased with something. For people like Gabriel, that was never a good thing.

Gabriel said a few words of introduction before he cut to the chase. "Today," he grinned, "we're going to try something a little bit different."

A collective groan sounded around the circumference of the circle of soldiers, but Gabriel didn't seem to notice. He went on. "This class will be focusing on understanding how _others _rationalize their feelings. Once you begin to realize how someone else views themselves, you'll be surprised how much you learn about your _own _self. Now, for this exercise, I'll be putting you into groups of two—"

A louder noise of disapproval came from every mouth except Gabriel's own. Still, he went on. "Now, now, none of that. You'll all be fine. Getting out of your comfort zone is all part of the healing process.

"Adams," he said, pointing to Juniper, "you'll be working with Simmons." Gabriel gestured to a not-so-nice-looking soldier who was making it a point to look at the ceiling, rather than at any of the people in the room.

Gabriel paired up a few more people before he called Turbo's name. His other warden Katie hadn't been paired up with anyone yet. Maybe, if he was lucky—

"And Turbo—sorry, I don't know your last name yet—"

"I don't have a last name," Turbo said simply.

Gabriel faltered. "Well, how about that. You'll be working with Markowski today."

Markowski nodded to him from a few seats over. It wasn't Katie, whom he was much more familiar with, but at least it was someone he'd come into contact with before. Some of the people in this room, Turbo thought, looked like outright assholes. Markowski, at least, would be tolerable. Or so he hoped.

"Go ahead and pull your chair up to your partner," Gabriel instructed.

Chairs squealed across the metal flooring. But before Turbo could even get up, Markowski slammed his chair down in front of him. Markowski was such a towering figure, and that chair was so small…it was a wonder it didn't collapse under his weight, Turbo thought.

"Glad I got paired up with you instead of some of these others," Markowski mumbled. "I don't exactly have the best reputation round here, since I quit the frontline."

"Yeah," was all Turbo could think of to say. He scratched at a nonexistent itch on his forearm, making it a point to look away from Markowski's gaze. He wasn't _that _comfortable with him yet, to be looking at him for no reason.

"Are we all with our partners?" Gabriel asked to the unresponsive crowd. "Great. Now I'll be passing out some cards…"

The counselor handed each person a healthy stack of unlined index cards. When Turbo got his, he flipped through them. Each card had a handwritten question on it.

_Ugh_, Turbo thought. It didn't take a genius to figure out what they'd be doing with these.

"As you've probably already noticed," Gabriel said, "these cards have all got questions written on them. Now, I've personally written out all of these questions myself, and we might reuse these at a later date, so please do try and be careful with them, if you don't mind.

Take turns asking your partner the questions written on your card. If you're the one asking the question, please put on your listening ears and hear every word that your partner is saying to you. Provide feedback to your partner if you feel it's appropriate—in fact, I'd encourage that. And if you're answering a question your partner asks you, be as honest as you can. Be detailed. Even if the truth hurts."

With that, Gabriel walked to the front of the room, sitting back down in his chair. "Have fun!"

At least the snack food was good—Italian pinwheels, first of all. They weren't as good as Sour Bill's pinwheels used to be (Sour Bill was a surprisingly good cook), but they were passable. And the cucumber sandwiches weren't bad. Also, his sweet tooth (a more correct term would be his mouth full of sweet teeth) was satiated with a frosted sugar cookie and a vanilla bean cupcake. Since Markowski was already riffling through the cards, trying to find a good one, Turbo busied himself by turning the cupcake round in his hand, studying it, thinking where to bite it to get that perfect frosting to cake ratio.

"I'll ask you a question first," Markowski said, "sound good?"

Turbo shrugged. He bit into his cupcake. "'S fine," he said through a mouthful.

"Alright. 'What was your first quarter alert like?'"

Turbo stiffened. "That was a long time ago," was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

"Was it? Mine was, oh, not even a year ago, I don't guess."

"Mine was nearly thirty years ago."

"Thirty!" Markowski bellowed. He was being really loud. Turbo wished he'd be a few octaves quieter. "You're an old geezer, huh!" he laughed.

Turbo skirted around that comment. That was a little bit of a sensitive subject of his. "My first quarter alert was…scary, actually," Turbo muttered. "Somebody else controlling your body, y'know? Ya get used to it, but…the first time was pretty horrifying."

"Ah, see," Markowski nodded. "I'm just support for the Player. Well, _was. _Fact, nobody poses as the Player, it's just a computer head holding a gun. Stupid-looking thing. Nobody here loses control of their body. Man, I don't even know what that'd _feel _like."

"The very first player crashed me into a wall about twenty times," Turbo said, shaking his head. "It was…different."

"You know what, little man?" Markowski said. "I've never seen you smile before."

Turbo hadn't noticed he was smiling, but he surely was. As soon as he realized it, though, the grin vanished. "Nostalgia, I guess," Turbo mumbled.

"Yep, that'll do it," Markowski said. "Okay, that's good. You ask me one now."

He simply decided to read the first card in the stack. "'What is your biggest regret in life?'" On second thought, maybe he should've scanned the cards for a better question. That one was pretty deep.

"Not becoming a tailor sooner," Markowski said immediately. "Not the manliest of jobs, I'll admit, but killing bugs all day, every day was driving me batshit crazy. And I use that term quite literally."

"I think I'd like to blow up bugs," Turbo said, imagining explosions of green goo and metal. _P-pow, p-pow, p-pow. _

"Well, it was too…" Markowski said. "I dunno, I couldn't handle it. Making clothes is way more relaxing, my manhood be damned. I'd rather use my sewing machine than my gun any day." And there was that booming laugh again. But Turbo believed he was getting used to it.

"Alright, alright," Markowski said with a wave of his huge hand. "Next question. '"Tell me about one of your worst dates or your recent crush.'"

"Sounds like a question out of a magazine," Turbo said with a shake of his head. "Anyway. Hang on, lemme think—this was way before your time, but there used to be this cabinet called _Galaga_—"

He told the story of how he went to _Tapper's _on a date with one of the _Galaga _NPCs, only to have an entire pitcher of beer dumped on his head about thirty minutes into it. To this day, he wasn't sure whether he'd said something to offend his date, or if they were just a loon. He had begged them to explain, running after them and hollering for them to come back to the bar, but they'd stormed off in a huff. He never saw them again after that night.

"My older brothers used to joke around that my date just couldn't stand to look at me anymore, and that's the only thing they could think of to get out of it," Turbo said. "Could've done the regular thing, though, where you say you've gotta go to the bathroom and then never come back." He surprised himself by laughing at the memory.

"You have brothers?" Markowski asked.

And now he remembered why he never talked about anything from his past. He'd opened a mental door that needed to stay shut. "Had," he said icily. He licked at the frosting on his cupcake, cheeks growing hot.

"Ah," Markowski nodded. "Sorry, pal."

Turbo wouldn't exactly call himself Markowski's "pal," but there was no point in arguing about it. He sighed. "Next question." He picked an index card at random. "'What is your favorite salad dressing?'"

They asked a few more, but after the awkwardness of the date night question, neither of them wanted to say anything particularly personal. Turbo wanted to hide in a corner somewhere. He desperately wanted to be cleaning something or staring at the ceiling of his holding cell. And he'd almost take being at the bottom of a volcano again.

"I think that's enough for today," Gabriel chimed, and Turbo sighed with relief. "Everybody arrange your seats back into a circle, please…"

So they did, and Turbo found himself sandwiched between Juniper and Katie again. He felt a strange kind of security in that—hating himself for feeling that way, but he did.

Once Gabriel had come around and collected his index cards, he said, "I hope you've learned a little bit about your fellow classmates today, but most importantly, I hope you've learned something about yourself. Did you feel a little bit uncomfortable when you gave some of these answers? Maybe even a little remorseful? A little sad?"

Jumping into a volcano was looking pretty good at that point.

"Now, these feelings are perfectly natural, and I even encourage them," Gabriel said. "These are emotions that we don't necessarily _like_, but if we can learn to work _with _them instead of bottling them up, we can make ourselves that much stronger. Your homework for the week is to learn what events from your past make you feel negatively. Think about them, experience the emotion, and think about how we can use that knowledge to avoid making the same mistakes in the future."

For his next sentence, he looked directly at Turbo: "Remember, there is no changing your past, but you can always alter your future."

Turbo could punch a wall. He needed to get out of there. Had Gabriel not adjourned the meeting at that very moment, he would've probably made a fool out of himself—doing what, he didn't really know, but it wouldn't be something good. Sadness, he usually just jammed that up in his brain, he was used to that. But his anger was more of a wild child.

"Whoa, tiger," Juniper said. She and Katie were practically jogging to keep up with Turbo's angry stomping. "You really wanna get back to washing rovers that quickly, huh?"

Turbo didn't answer. He found it best to just keep his mouth shut when he was angry. That usually did not happen, but he was going to try.

"You need to let those feelings out, you know," Katie said. "You need to _feel _them." She giggled.

Turbo turned on his heels, stopping in the middle of the corridor. He had a mind to fire back some kind of remark to Katie, but that was before Juniper nearly tripped over him. Turbo managed to catch her, but her glasses went flying. There was a definite sound of glass breaking as they hit the ground, but before they could be retrieved, someone in the corridor walked past and stepped on them, crunching them under their heel without the slightest idea.

Turbo's stomach sank. He hurried over to pick them up. Gingerly, with a thumb and forefinger, he lifted up one of the arms of the glasses. The frame was bent completely out of shape, and the glass in both lenses was shattered beyond repair.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

"Don't touch the glass," Juniper said, coming to kneel beside Turbo, "you'll cut your hands all up, just leave it."

He handed her the frame to her glasses, which he didn't think could be salvaged in any way, but he didn't know what else to do. "I didn't mean for that to happen," he said stupidly.

"Well, don't worry, my eyes aren't _that _bad without em," Juniper said. "I'll live, until I get a new pair made."

Turbo stood back up; Juniper followed suit. Katie came up to inspect the broken eyeglasses. "Oh, yeah," she said, "those are definitely trash."

"I've been wanting a new pair, anyway," Juniper said, but Turbo could tell she was just saying that for his benefit. "I'll tell Calhoun to put an eye appointment on my schedule."

"She's not gonna be happy about that," Katie said as they walked toward the garage.

"I don't believe she's got much of a choice in the matter," Juniper said, "there's no way I can—" But she caught a glimpse of Turbo's hangdog expression and stopped mid-sentence. "I better get a new pair as soon as possible, is all."

When they reached the garage, Juniper stuck her hand in a box of shop towels and pulled one out, handing it to Turbo.

"What's this for?" he said.

"Well, without my glasses, I can't really see to do oil changes, can I? That towel's for you to wipe dipsticks with. Surely the greatest racer ever knows how to do an oil change, am I right?"

Turbo had done no less than a hundred oil changes in his lifetime. "I think I can manage," he said, plucking the shop towel from her hand.

He picked a rover at random and popped the hood. Juniper and Katie wandered over to their guard posts, their office chairs with the egg crate footstools in front of them, and sat down.

"You love doing oil changes," Katie said slyly. "Can you really not do that without your glasses, or are you feeling sorry for a certain someone over there?"

"He didn't mean to make me trip," Juniper explained.

"Okay, okay," Katie said, putting her hands up defensively. "Just don't forget he's a prisoner here. He's not exactly on vacation. Have you heard Calhoun tell some of the things he's done?"

Juniper nodded. Katie had a point. "Well, but still. Apparently something upset him in therapy today. He needs something to take his mind off it."

Katie smiled. "You're too nice."

"Maybe I am," Juniper sighed. She reached up to adjust her glasses, but found she had none. She closed her eyes instead. She started to think.

Rumor had it that Turbo was a sociopath. A murderer. Evil. Et cetera, et cetera. And it didn't take a stretch of the imagination to see him in the middle of a bloodbath, cackling madly at the death of his enemies. And yet…there was something about him. A redeemable quality.

Ah, she didn't know. She reached down for the magazine under her chair, but remembered she wouldn't be able to see the print without the aid of her bifocals, so she resumed staring at the back of her eyelids. She'd known Turbo for two weeks now, and he was still a mystery to her. Maybe he'd always be that way. Or maybe she'd crack him like an egg.

She'd just have to wait and see.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I finally got a third chapter written! I had a very vague idea of what I wanted to do with it, and I thought, well, I'll just start writing and hope for the best. And I cranked out another chapter that I'm pleased with, yay.

I would really like to incorporate more canon characters into this, but I don't want to force it, so I'll just have to see how that goes.

And I finally stopped being a lazy bum and drew a cover image for this story, so there's that too.

Also, I think I might make an 8tracks playlist for this story? Every story I read or every movie I watch or whatever, I always find myself thinking, I should definitely make an 8tracks playlist for that. Lmao so I might do that too.

I _do _have an idea for a chapter 4, so hopefully that goes well. :)


	4. the one-on-one

The lights flickered for a brief moment overhead. Then, a cool male voice over the PA system: "_Quarter alert—quarter alert—all soldiers to their stations."_

A few frantic-faced soldiers ran past Juniper and Turbo in the hall, guns drawn and ready, headed in the opposite direction.

"Glad I don't have to do that," Juniper muttered. One, two more soldiers hurried past them. "And by the way, what happened to your hand?"

Turbo held his right hand up for her to see. The two blisters on his fingertips weren't healing. Had he been in a game his code was written into, they would've been gone instantaneously, as it would've done in _Sugar Rush, _or _Turbo Time _before that_. _But here, he was banking on his theory that his nightly internal code reset would take care of them.

Because those blisters burned like hellfire.

_Volcano fire_, he thought jokingly.

"Well," he said. "I was kind of…trying to take my tracker-ankle-thing off."

_Rip it off is more like it._

Juniper shook her head. "And it electrocuted you, didn't it? Shame on you." But she was sort of smiling.

"_Ten seconds to gametime. Ten—nine—eight—"_

The two of them had come to a stop in front of a door, a door that looked like all the rest of the doors in the place—gray and cold and locked tight. Turbo cast an annoyed glance up at the ceiling while Juniper swiped her ID card in a door slot.

"Is the countdown really necessary?" he scoffed.

"_Five—four—three—"_

The door gave a happy _be-beep _and clicked unlocked. Juniper pushed it open. "I hate it," she murmured. "Drives me crazy."

The way she'd said that made Turbo feel a little leery.

"_Game begin."_

Turbo walked into the room behind Juniper. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and something else, something vaguely floral. In the room was a very cluttered desk, and behind said desk sat a thin, wispy woman clacking away at a computer. She flicked her eyes away from the screen to stare at them for a nanosecond before resuming her typing. Juniper walked up to the desk, Turbo following suit.

"First time visit?" she said in a faraway voice.

"Uh, yes," Juniper said. She scratched at her face rash.

"Okay," the woman behind the desk said. She plinked away at her keyboard. She clicked a few things. Behind her, a phone rang. She ignored it. Turbo's eyes wandered, falling onto a fake potted plant with fake rain misting its fake leaves.

"First name?" she asked.

"Well," Juniper said, looking startled by the break in the silence. "The appointment's not for me, it's…it's for him." Juniper gestured toward Turbo, who was picking the fake rain off the fake plant with his non-blistered hand, discarding the gummy droplets into carpet.

"That's fine," the woman said. She looked at Turbo. "First name?"

He sighed. "Turbo."

Some typing. "Last name?"

"None."

The receptionist's brow furrowed. "Spell that, please?"

Turbo snickered a little bit. "No, none as in _none_. As in I don't have a last name."

The receptionist tightened her lips, looked at him. "Well, we have to put something in the last name blank on this form, or it won't let me go to the next screen." She looked up at Juniper. "What's your last name, ma'am?"

"Well, it's Adams, but—"

Typing. "Date of birth?"

Turbo wanted to bang his head against the wall.

After fabricating a lot of personal information, Turbo was finally signed in, and he and Juniper sat down in the waiting area.

"And what exactly am I doing here again?" he asked her.

"Gabriel wants a one-on-one with you, that's all." She picked up a magazine, looked at the cover, threw it back on the coffee table.

"Why, though?" But before he gave her a chance to answer: "Have you ever been here?"

Juniper nodded. "I have."

"How bad is it?"

She shrugged. "He just wants to talk to you about stuff. It's only for an hour. Not that bad."

Turbo let that percolate. He drummed his fingers against the armrest of the chair. He hated sitting still, and he hated silence even more. The only thing he could hear was the receptionist lady typing, typing, _typing—_

"New glasses?" he said loudly.

Juniper raised her hand up to the frames in question. "Yeah," she said. "Yesterday. After me and Katie took you back to your cell."

Turbo nodded. Bit his cheek. Couldn't take the silence. "Different color," he noted.

"Yeah," she said. "Decided to try the red ones."

The worst kind of silence, the awkward silence, fell over the room.

The receptionist's phone rang again, and this time, she answered it. Without saying anything into the receiver, she hung up. She hit a button on her desk, and the door behind her slid open.

"Mr. Adams, Gabriel is ready for you now."

Turbo looked at Juniper, grinned. "Mr. Adams," he mocked, raising his eyebrows. Juniper fought off a smile and shook her head.

"Get outta here," Juniper said, flapping her hand at him.

And so he went. The other room wasn't a lot different from the receptionist's area, except there was an uncomfortable couch instead of uncomfortable chairs. Behind a desk, Gabriel beamed up at Turbo.

"Are you nervous?"

"Nope," Turbo said, flopping down on the couch. "Let's get this over with."

"You seem as if you'd like to cut to the chase," Gabriel said. "Eager to get back to those two lovely caretakers of yours, eh?"

"Better-looking than you," Turbo said, shifting into as comfortable a position as the lumpy couch allowed.

"That's a fact," Gabriel said politely. "Now, getting right to it. Why don't we talk about the game cabinet you originated from. What was it called?"

The mood in the room took a nosedive. Turbo let a slow breath out of his nose.

"As you know," Gabriel went on, "_Hero's Duty _hasn't been plugged in for very long—about a year or so. I've not had the chance to talk to many outsiders. Though I did speak to Sergeant Calhoun's husband for a bit. He's from the same era as you, you know."

Despite everything, that piqued Turbo's interest. "Who's she married to?"

"His name is Felix. Fixing Felix, I believe."

Turbo dipped his chin toward the therapist. "Fix-it Felix? You sure?"

Gabriel smiled warmly, discretely writing down a few things on a sheet of paper in front of him. "Ah, yes. Fix-it Felix, that's him. I was only a little bit off, wasn't I?"

"Haven't seen him in forever," Turbo mused. "We used to drink at _Tapper's _together, back in the day."

"Back when you were still in your original game cabinet?"

"Mm, I see where you're going with this," Turbo grinned. "My original game was _Turbo Time. _There. Happy?"

Gabriel noted that down on his paper. "Must've been back when Litwak first opened the place."

"Pretty much. Not too long after, anyways. I used to be state-of-the-art, y'know. Like _this_ place is now. Trust me, it don't last."

"Times change, I suppose. Technology gets better."

"The _graphics _are what really matters," Turbo said. "The gameplay is the same in a lot of cases. Like this place?" Turbo made a wide arc with his hands. "_Duck Hunt _with a fresh coat of paint."

"And _Sugar Rush _was _Turbo Time _with a fresh coat of paint?"

Turbo was silent for a moment. "It's a little more complicated than that," he mumbled.

"Well, tell me about it," Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair. "Felix told me you used to be the most popular game in the arcade. When was there trouble in paradise?"

Turbo groaned. "I think I need a stiff drink to tell that story."

"Forget about it, then," Gabriel said simply. "We'll talk about it later."

The therapist stood up, crossed the room to stand in front of Turbo. Turbo looked up at him in confusion.

Gabriel stuck out his hand for Turbo to shake. "I look forward to seeing you in class this Thursday."

Not knowing what else to do, Turbo shook the other man's hand awkwardly. "That's it?" he said as he stood up.

Gabriel smiled. "That's it. Let me walk you out."

{*}

"What did you do?" Juniper said as soon as the waiting room door closed behind them.

"Nothing," Turbo shrugged. "We just…talked?"

"You were in there for, like, five minutes. You were scheduled to be in there for an hour."

Turbo gave her a look. "I don't care for your tone," he said airily.

Juniper ignored that comment, smiling ever-so-slightly. "This might be one of his mind games, though," she pointed out.

"Dunno," Turbo said. "Well, whatever. Just glad to be outta there."

"_Quarter alert—quarter alert—all soldiers to their stations._"

Juniper put a hand to her forehead. "I hate that so much."

_Wonder why? _Turbo thought to himself. _Surely she'd be used to it by now._

"Where we headed?" he asked her.

"_Ten seconds to gametime. Ten—_"

"Um…"

"_Nine—eight—_"

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "It's hard to concentrate with that. The kitchens. To the kitchens. With Katie."

Juniper's face was obviously pained. Turbo looked up at her.

_What's eating her?_

_"Two—one—game begin."_

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

**Author's Note: **It's really good to be writing something again. Of course, there have been some crazy irl things going on (isn't there always?). Anyway, I've been absent from here and Tumblr and...pretty much everything. Hopefully I can get back into the swing of things.

Anyway, hope yall like the update! I have a million ideas for more fanfictions, but I really wanted to update this one. I have a horrendous time finishing fanfictions. I felt like I should at least _try _on this one, right? Even though it's riddled with ocs? Haha, I kind of wish it had more canon characters. I had Felix written into this one, but it was really forced. I erased him out of the final draft. Oh, well. We'll just have to see what happens in later chapters!


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